Amnesia (8 page)

He also realized that the temperature was just right. Forgotten was the frigid winter of his first environment, the snow and ice melted into nonexistence. Disappeared were the snakes and rocky soil of the desert wildlife; all of it crawled away into nothingness. Gone was the endless sand, blown into oblivion. Instead was the peaceful calm of a world where the climate was perfection itself.

Again he heard the voice reaching out to him, calling him to the home he had always missed, but could never remember. He walked down the hall toward the sound, turned right then left, winding through the maze, always coming closer to the source of his delight.

As he neared the sound he began to realize that somehow he recognized it. Although he couldn’t place when or where, he instinctively perceived that it was someone he knew and that meant a great deal to him. It was a woman’s voice, not a high pitched squeal or a low pitched hum, but just a normal lilting melody that pulled at his very soul whispering of peace and tranquility. He began to tear again, but this time it was joy that touched his heart and happiness that enveloped him.

The voice was louder now, nearly in front of him, still sending out soothing tones that led him on. Then he heard it laughing; the tinkling of bells that sent shivers down his arms, lending gaiety to the already overwhelming rapture.

He rounded the last corner encountering a door directly in front of him. He reached out to the handle afraid for a moment that it might be locked, yet knowing deep inside that it wouldn’t be. He turned the handle, threw the door open wide, and stepped through knowing that this was the destination at last that he had prayed for.

He closed his eyes almost afraid of what he would find after searching so long for comfort and aid and praying so hard for deliverance. He knew this was where he was meant to be, but had no idea what that meant. Innumerable thoughts flooded his mind, his brain racing to quantify and qualify the myriad of images that coursed through the cerebrum, synapses firing at
lightning
speed. What world would he end up in now?

Slowly he opened his eyes and locked on to the hazel eyes of the angel that had found him and saved him. For the first time in this life he stared into the beautiful face of Doctor Clarissa Brandon.

Marcuse stood at the glass door separating the library from the balcony, gently swirling a glass of cognac in his right hand as he held the unregistered cell phone in his left. The swimming robe he wore covered slightly damp trunks and he was eager to complete the task and return to his guests. His eyes followed the intricate design work of the balcony’s wooden railing as it curved down following the stairs leading to the lower levels and the pool just beyond. Over to the right sat the pool house, easily converted into a guest house as it already held all the provisions of a well furnished apartment, as well as several changing rooms built into the outside wall.

The roar of thoughts in his head was at a fevered pitch tonight and he could barely follow all the ideas as they eddied and swirled, colliding then separating. He liked to think of these “voices” as his edge over normal people, the dull-witted ones that could barely put together enough reasoning to survive from one minute to the next. He felt the old familiar revulsion of having to endure his life among these vulgar chattel with which fate had decided to surround him. Someday he would escape the cesspool and rise to the heights where he belonged. It wouldn’t be long now, he decided, before he would be deified, as he so well deserved.

“It’s about time Scardoni, I’m not used to having to wait for someone to answer the phone,” he growled into the Motorola flip phone. He didn’t like the phone his contact had given him, but he relished the anonymity this particular calling plan offered. Being truly untraceable was a luxury only a few, like him, could afford. It didn’t matter much anyway; this was the only number he called with this particular phone.

Rudy made an irritated guttural sound, but held his tongue knowing that the caller held all the power. Three rings was hardly a long time to wait. “What is it?” he finally voiced.

“Don’t you think it odd that a man in the hospital is saying something about falling out of a plane that crashed last weekend? He came in Friday night from the Cascade/Donnelly area and is starting to cause a bit of a stir among my contacts there. Apparently they are thinking some foul play was involved.”

Marcuse could feel the tension as the pieces started adding up to the assassin he had hired. He relished this feeling, the rush that came when he exerted power and control over his underlings. He knew what was going on in Scardoni’s ugly head—the sudden fear that he may be revealed. The survival instinct turned to panic as he cast about wildly for a solution to his danger. Marcuse’s face broke into a slow evil smile as he delivered his next crushing blow.

“Now I know that it was simply your stupidity and ignorance that allowed this to happen, and I am willing to overlook such things from fools such as you. In fact, I am in a position to help you out of your mess this time, but it will cost you.”

He paused, allowing the message to sink in, waiting for the groveling to begin. He heard the muffled cursing on the other end of the line. His grin widened as he imagined the tortured look on Scardoni’s face. He could easily see the ugly red scar that crept down the light Nordic face, extending from the left ear to down under the chin, ostensibly from a knife fight, but more likely from an overzealous father trying to teach his son respect.

Finally the response he had expected came through the airwaves. “No, I’ll take care of it.” Then the ruffian paused, hoping to avoid the inevitable, even knowing eventually he would have to give in. “What do you need from me?”

Marcuse knew he had won again. The exhilaration made him feel slightly giddy and he had to stifle a laugh. Instead he turned from the doors and went over to one of the overstuffed chairs and sat down. There were three other identical chairs in the room, made of deep soft leather, with wings on the back and huge arms, all to add comfort and affluence to the huge room. In the center was a mahogany table, sturdy, and mostly unused. Its rectangular shape accented the oval rug under it, adding a richer feel to the expensive piece. It too was surrounded by chairs, straight-backed, ready for the student to sit and drink in the knowledge waiting unopened on the shelves built into all four walls.

Centered along one wall between the hallway door and the balcony door was a matching mahogany desk, the one Marcuse, and his father before him, used for his business. Behind it sat a high backed leather reclining office chair, looking even more comfortable and opulent than the other furniture in the room; the king’s throne.

Marcuse did not know if anyone had ever opened a single one of the tens of thousands of books the room held. The library was nearly two levels high, with bare inches separating each laden shelf, supplied with a rolling ladder to reach the topmost tomes. It was the epitome of the litterateur’s dream; yet it was entirely wasted in this house of megalomaniacs. He surely did not need them; he felt he was above their meaningless babble. Tennyson was sappy in comparison. Thoreau a mere child compared to his great intellect.

Only two books held his attention: an English translation of the inspired volume “Mein Kampf” by Adolf Hitler, and “Eros and Civilization,” by the great Professor Herbert Marcuse, from whom he had stolen the counterfeit moniker. Ironically, the name he had chosen for himself was Germanic, just as the buffoon on the phone was also of German descent.

“Don’t worry, Rudy, we’ll come up with something. Perhaps you could add a little ingenuity to that other matter we discussed. As for the unfortunate soul in the hospital, he is on the seventh floor in the long-term ward. I’m sure you can manage the rest by yourself.”

Scardoni was somewhat surprised that Marcuse was so lenient, yet he was not naive enough to believe the depraved man would be so forgiving. No, he decided, he was simply biding his time, waiting to call in the favor. It was a game he played well himself, only he had always held the proverbial ace up the sleeve. Only this time he was the proverbial fool.

“No problem. When?”

“Whenever you feel the need, Mr. Scardoni,” was the saccharine reply. “I trust you will not disappoint me.”

The thinly veiled threat was not wasted on the hoodlum, who knew that he was dangerously close to finding his own neck on the chopping block. The feeling was foreign to him and decidedly unpleasant. He entertained a quick thought, not for the first time, that he should perhaps focus his talents on the man on the other end of the phone. He just as quickly stifled that desire, knowing that he too must be patient.

“Tomorrow. It will give me time to get things ready,” he responded, then disconnected without a farewell.

Marcuse couldn’t hold the laughter in this time, filling the cavernous room with the evil sound. He stood and walked to a small desk near the hallway door where the house phone rested. He pressed the “End” button on the cell, flipped it closed, and slipped it carefully to the back of the drawer ensuring it was well camouflaged from accidental discovery by the false back he had made just for this purpose. He returned to the bar behind the large desk, downed the last of the dark liquid and sat the glass inside
the cellaret
. The room was, as were all the rooms in the palatial mansion, again immaculate, just the way he insisted it must be. He walked to the balcony door, opened it wide, and felt the heat roll over him.

He looked again down at the pool and the three scantily clad women who awaited his return. He again felt excitement building inside him, the rush of power over Scardoni still sweet in his head. He recalled the quote by Henry Kissinger that “power is the ultimate aphrodisiac” and knew it was true, only he couldn’t tell if the power he held was more erotic to him or the company he kept.

He slowly walked down the steps toward the pool, watching the girls in the water, and smiled to himself. He knew he would demand companionship tonight and wondered which one would hold the honor. His grin widened as he pulled off the robe and dove into the midst of them. It never occurred to him that they might not be as eager to be with him as he was with them, but even if it had he wouldn’t have cared. He always got what he wanted; nothing ever stood in his way. Ever.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

Anger filled Scardoni as he hung up the phone. Never before had he allowed anyone to speak to him as Marcuse did and he wasn’t going to start taking it now. He was the one in control. He was the one to be feared. No one strong-armed him, pulling his strings like a puppet. His ego wouldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t let the police do it, he wouldn’t let his father do it, and he certainly wouldn’t allow some deranged madman to do it. Marcuse would pay, and pay dearly, Rudy vowed. It was just a matter of time.

The familiar restless energy from being cooped up all day was driving him mad and the phone calls pushed him beyond all control. Suddenly he realized he didn’t really care what Marcuse said. He, Rudy Scardoni, was a vicious and ruthless man who claimed his own destiny. For the moment he decided that it was time for him to have some fun. He picked up his sharp hunting knife and walked into the opposite room, eyeing the two bound and gagged prisoners.

It wasn’t much of a shelter that he had picked, although it was ideal for his purpose; it was ignored by passers-by, seeing only an old broken down house off the side of State Street. The location was also ideal because the huge trees fronting the lot nearly blocked all visibility, and subsequently movement, and also because the Wal-Mart parking lot across the busy street allowed him to come and go with freedom, without a conspicuous car resting near the abandoned building.

The inside of the dilapidated house was even worse. The floors were all uneven, the tile and carpeting completely torn up. The cabinetry was falling off the walls and the ceiling hung dangerously low in some areas, water damage all too apparent. Even the walls themselves leaned askew, threatening to completely collapse at any moment. However, for some reason the plumbing was good, and the water flowed freely, a godsend in the abysmal summer heat.

The sweat poured freely from Scardoni’s brow and he swiped at it with a dirty hand, his shirt already soaked from the perspiration. He swaggered from the front room, taking the hall at the right into the back bedroom, where he could see the object of his lustful desire sitting on the floor with her back propped against the filthy wall. Even from here he could see that she too was drenched, the light gray jogging outfit turned dark with sweat.

He paused for a moment, ogling the senator’s only daughter, realizing just how enticing she really was. She had the perfect hair, the perfect body, the perfect face—all so perfect, and so tempting. He had been with many women in the past, some drunk or high, most just wanting companionship. Others he never bothered to ask, only taking what he needed then throwing them away. But never had he had the privilege of a beauty like this nineteen-year-old goddess. He smiled maliciously and sauntered over to her.

At first he just looked into her defiant eyes, further excited by the hate and disgust he found there. His head whirling with desire, he said nothing, his intent all too clear as he moved toward her. He was going to enjoy this. His mind was so intent on his current desire that all other thoughts fled. He moved in to devour his prey.

Still holding the long knife, he took hold of her left pant leg and stuck the curved point into the opening. Slowly he sawed back and forth, cutting away at the cloth. He looked up at her eyes and noted her fear with deep satisfaction. She was beginning to realize what was about to happen to her. He was in his element now and the knowledge served to further arouse him. His mind was so completely preoccupied with his progress he entirely missed the sound behind him.

*
             
             
*
             
             
*

Peter Frindle had been terrified into near paralysis after the experiences of the past few days and had begun to wonder about his manhood, especially in light of his friend’s courage. He had already resigned himself to certain death, but felt impotent to help and protect the woman he was growing to love. In the last couple of days the tears which he had shed had not been fear for his own life, but the recognition that he could do nothing to rescue the person who sat bravely opposite him. He would have gladly given his life to save hers.

Then he saw the kidnapper walking toward Beverley and could tell something was different. He had seen the man many times in the past few days, mostly when he came in to give food and water to the hostages, and he had always been angry and rushed, like he wanted nothing to do with either of them. However this time he moved slowly, carefully, as if he were looking for the right approach. His eyes, normally burning with anger, now burned with something else, something that was much more frightening. He knew in a moment what the molester had in mind and searched frantically for some way to thwart those intentions. He didn’t care what happened to him, but he would not allow Beverley to be damaged like this.

He carefully inched around the man, who seemed to have forgotten Peter was even in the room. Quietly he came around the evildoer’s back, toward the door that stood half-open. It never even occurred to him that this might be his chance for freedom; freedom meant nothing compared to the horrific price of Beverley’s virtue.

He reached his destination moments later, aided by the fact that his target was oblivious to all but his current objective. Peter pulled his bound form around painfully pushing himself up to a sitting position, struggling against the ropes that had kept him lying supine on the hard tiled floor. He put his back to the wall, braced against it, pulled his knees up, and pushed up with all he had. Although he was short, barely clearing five-nine, and was on the pudgy side, working on computers didn’t do much for the waistline, he was committed to do whatever he could. His hands bound behind him had grown numb with the tight ropes and were completely useless; in fact they got more in the way as he tried to push himself upright. His feet screamed with pain as the weight and pressure set upon them and he thought he was going to fall over again; however, that thought alone bolstered his resolve and finally he stood erect.